Let Me Hear Your Voice
by Entrancia
Summary: AU. Each time Syaoran enters her hospital room, he figures it's the guilt that keeps bringing him back. There's nothing else it can possibly be... right? SxS
1. Part One

**A/N: **So. Um. I've been away. For two years. School is my only excuse, because two hours of sleep a night doesn't really provide me with enough energy to write. Or walk, for that matter. Also, whenever I tried to get back to writing Forget-Me-Not, I'd take one glance at my old writing and immediately stumble to the nearest trash bin to puke. It discouraged me from writing so much that I just stopped. I don't feel like I improved at all since then, but hopefully I did. You be the judge. This is a very short fic (ficlet?) that I've been working on, probably only three or four chapters. It broke up nicely into parts, so I'll split it up instead of leaving it as a one-shot.

Funny thing. This was originally a fic about two guys before I changed it to a fanfiction. :P

**Title:** Let Me Hear Your Voice  
**Rating:** T  
**Genre:** Romance, angst  
**Pairing(s):** Sakura/Syaoran  
**Warnings:** OOC, I think? I've pretty much ignored CCS for two years so my memory's kinda hazy.  
**Summary:** AU. Each time Syaoran enters her hospital room, he figures it's the guilt that keeps bringing him back. There's nothing else it can possibly be... right?  
**Disclaimer:** Cardcaptor Sakura. It be CLAMP's.**  
**

* * *

**_let me hear your voice_**  
_entrancia_  
_pt. i_

* * *

_A cappuccino sounds good right now._

Ninety-one. Forty-three. Eighteen.

"Here's fifty-four cents in change. Have a nice day."

Ten.

_Huh. That uniform. She's from my school._

Three—

_Idiot. Look both ways before you cross the street.  
_

Two—

"Hey—"

One...

"_Kinomoto!"_

Zero.

Suddenly, time no longer matters.

Thinking back, he calculates that it took him seven seconds to reach the edge of the sidewalk from the stone steps of the coffee shop; one hundred eighteen seconds before his school's warning bell would ring; twenty-three seconds early to have a stray cat cross his path; four seconds after the driver of a dark blue Highlander Limited sneezed, accidentally grinding his foot into the gas pedal when he turned the corner; and exactly three seconds too late to yank his classmate out of the collision course of that very car.

Syaoran only wishes he had been faster.

He wants to ride in the ambulance but the paramedics refuse. They tell him to scurry off to class as they heave the loaded gurney into the back of the white and red vehicle: white like his required uniform dress shirt, red like the blood that blooms from the gauze circling Sakura's forehead.

He almost yells at them; how can he go to school with this image tattooed into his memory, with his classmate lying motionless stretched out on a bed of white, her heartbeat slowing, slowing, failing her, while men and women in their pristine uniforms connect their lifesaving tubes into her limbs, and it's all because he didn't save her, _he didn't save her._

Syaoran turns and flees from the scene like they ask, but he finds himself running in the direction away from his school, wanting to reach the hospital before the ambulance does and knowing he can't.

* * *

The doctors deny him entrance to the emergency room when he arrives at the hospital. He doesn't know how long the ambulance has been sitting there in front of the building; he just knows it got there first, taunting him with its flashy sirens, and he slams his fist into the brick wall of an apartment building in frustration.

Syaoran does end up going to school after all — two thousand twenty-five seconds after the late bell, but better than not coming at all. His parents hadn't brought him to Japan just to have him skip classes. As he scribbles down his name for a pass from the office, the secretary there shoots him dirty looks, seems to think he's one of those hooligans who show up half the time and believe that _homework time _is synonymous to _getting high and utterly wasted. _He only says flatly that there has been an accident, and doesn't elaborate when she calls after his retreating form.

He makes it in time for Honors Calculus, his best class even though he hates it. The elderly teacher accepts his pass with a nod and nothing else. She knows he's a good kid and this is his first tardy of the year, so she's willing to let it slide. He easily maneuvers his way over the backpacks blocking the rows and takes his seat.

A wave of whispers sweeps through the room. Things had certainly looked suspicious when the happy, bubbly, everybody's-friend Kinomoto Sakura missed school for the first time, and so did that weird Chinese transfer, Li Syaoran, who, despite being labeled guaranteed valedictorian and playing outside midfielder on the soccer team, stays so low-profile that he might as well not exist at all. They should have known she won't skip school with him. After all, Sakura likes _fun, _and Syaoran is galaxies away from that.

He glances at the board, tries his best to focus. But every time he sees the teacher draw with her unsteady hand the top part of the _pi_ symbol, he can't help but think back to the morning, inside the ambulance, to the weakly pulsing green line within the box that monitored Sakura's beating heart.

That's all it takes for Syaoran to push all thoughts of calculus out of his head.

He then looks sideways at the vacant desk beside his, the one assigned to Sakura, and he wonders how long it will be before that seat is filled again.

He doesn't know her very well, but that doesn't mean she's a stranger. She never fails to acknowledge him — and anyone else within shouting distance — before the teacher ushers her into her desk. It's annoying, that endless energy, and sometimes he would like it very much if she would shut up now, please, but he doesn't hate her, because the universe has deemed it a sin to hate Kinomoto Sakura.

If disliking her is sinful, then he must be beyond redemption for not saving her when he could.

Prolonged hours, several ignored greetings from soccer mates, a lunch he remembers tasting like socks, and one shrill dismissal bell tearing into his thoughts later, Syaoran heads home with a heavy backpack and a heavier conscience.

And days after that, when he hears the okay from the hospital for visitors to see her, he is the first to come.

He hesitates outside the hospital room, next to the little card that reads_ Kinomoto S.,_ the only indication, besides her absence at school, that anything is wrong with her at all, and he debates whether or not he should push through that door. He is afraid to see exactly what he let happen.

He doesn't _have _to pay her a visit, he reasons, because he hadn't been the one behind the wheel of that car. He had just been another passerby, another witness of fate's perverse ways, just as blameless as that rickety old granny he saw tossing stale bread bits to pigeons at the time.

Only, he knows that's not true.

He had heard the car coming. He'd had enough time to act. He certainly hadn't needed to wait until the car came near enough for him to read the absolute panic in the driver's expression as he scrambled for control. But those extra seconds made all the difference. He knew what would happen before it happened, yet chose not to act until too late. And by then, Sakura had already strayed into the middle of the street...

"Li-kun?"

He blinks, once, twice, a third time; he is no longer standing in the halls. Somehow, his feet had transported him past the door. The room's only occupant lies awake, staring at him with such bright, sparkling eyes that it's unmistakable who that train wreck of a person is, despite the bandages, the scratches that crisscross her face, the—

"What the _hell_ happened to your voice?" he blurts.

The most memorable part of Sakura is her voice, as it is likely one would hear her before seeing her; it's a voice crafted from sunshine and powdered sugar and maybe even some rainbows, almost uplifting enough to rouse the dead into living. Once heard, it's impossible to forget. Kind of like the scratching of nails on a chalkboard, lingering in your mind afterward, but decidedly much more pleasant.

He can't even classify the noise that came out of her throat as a voice, more of a croak, really — and as equally cringe-inducing as nails on a chalkboard, because it's the first time Syaoran's heard her utter such a gravelly sound. She sounds like someone had choked her and added some extra wrenches to make sure she never speaks again.

But: "Sore throat," she rasps, and smiles when Syaoran flinches. "I can't whisper because that irritates the throat more. It's better to speak like this," she explains.

He nods and breathes a little _oh _of relief. He doesn't say anything else — doesn't know what else to say. He's never spoken to her before, not willingly, and she's just smiling and staring and probably curious why on earth he's here. He wonders the same.

The silence makes things awkward for him, so he asks about her condition.

She counts off her fingers thoughtfully, as though merely creating a Christmas wish list, as she recalls what the doctors told her: countless broken bones, the gashes and bruises, damaged this-and-thats, a leg that might not work properly anymore. Syaoran thinks those injuries are horrific enough, but then she tells him that they found something else, something vital that doesn't function like it should. The discovery is just a bit late for them to mend immediately, and for that reason she can't leave, not for a while. His face must show something that resembles worry, because Sakura assures him that they can fix it.

"It'll take some time, that's all," she says.

He figures that she's either incredibly optimistic or incredibly stupid.

It would depress him terribly if it was anybody else telling him this, but she describes it all with a smile, a positive tone, makes him want to believe that everything will turn out fine. He's never given her more than two seconds of his thoughts before, so he can't understand why he wants so desperately to see her up and out of that bed, walking on legs that aren't dysfunctional. He figures it's the guilt. It's got to be the guilt.

Syaoran doesn't stay long. It's enough for him that he had come to see her. Besides, he has a lot of homework due Monday that he won't finish unless he leaves now, right now.

His goodbye is even more awkward than his greeting: he fumbles for a while with excuses of why he can't stay before deciding that mumbling an abrupt "Bye" is better, and turns to leave.

"I'm really happy that you took the time to see me," he hears her say behind him.

Her voice is so rough and low that he almost misses what she said. Almost, but not quite, because he caught every bit of it. Her words follow him all the way home, wind their way into his memory, and trouble him through the weekend.

It is probably because of those words that, even though he had silently sworn that he will have nothing more to do with her, Syaoran inexplicably finds himself outside Sakura's hospital room once again, some days later.

* * *

**A/N:** Let me know what you think. Or not. Just review if you have something to say. Personally I think it's a cliche, overused plot, but when have I _ever_ come up with something original? XP

Can you point out any mistakes if you see them? Even something as silly as a spelling error, I'd really appreciate it. I'm always looking to improve. Thanks for reading.

Lastly, since I don't know where else to put this, some of you might recognize me as **Deprived of Chocolate**'s beta. I used to keep in touch with her until she disappeared around the same time I did. I know she has tons of faithful readers waiting for updates from her, but I haven't heard from her for two years. In case any of her readers see this, I want you to be informed that I haven't a clue where she is and I don't know when (or if) she'll be returning. D:

Until next time,

Entrancia


	2. Part Two

**A/N**: I think my characterization is seriously off. Watch out for that, will you?

**Title:** Let Me Hear Your Voice  
**Rating:** T  
**Genre:** Romance, angst  
**Pairing(s):** Sakura/Syaoran  
**Warnings:** OOC, I think? I've pretty much ignored CCS for two years so my memory's kinda hazy.  
**Summary:** AU. Each time Syaoran enters her hospital room, he figures it's the guilt that keeps bringing him back. There's nothing else it can be... right?  
**Disclaimer:** I wish I owned Cardcaptor Sakura.**  
**

* * *

_**let me hear your voice**  
entrancia  
pt. ii  
_

* * *

The door is open. At his footsteps she cracks her eyes open sleepily, and they widen with pleasant surprise when she sees him. If she cares that it's him of all people visiting her, she's masking it well.

"Li-kun, hi!"

That's how she usually greets him when they're in school. It's so familiar that it brings him back there for a moment, to a time when Sakura would walk, skip, bounce around the classroom, and Syaoran would inwardly roll his eyes at her liveliness because he just wants to focus on evaluating the stupid integrals on his worksheet.

Upon walking in, he notices that her room is so much warmer and brighter than the rest of the hospital, it is borderline radiant. He can almost taste the sun, if such a thing was possible; it spreads through his body as a soothing warmth, not unlike the sensation one would get from slowly sipping hot chocolate on a chilly evening. It might be because the curtains are pushed wide apart and there aren't many clouds today, but it seems like the sunlight had sought out Sakura personally, caressing her with its tender rays and filling every shadowed cavity of the room. It makes the place seem almost welcoming.

The second thing he notices is that beside her bed is a table, with the surface reserved for chocolates and gift baskets and balloons printed with loud messages.

Except for her cell phone, there's nothing on it. Not a single get-well-soon card.

"How's your condition?" he asks her, like he did last time, eyeing the IV drip, her encased leg, the bedside defibrillator that's a constant reminder of what can go wrong. He doesn't like seeing all those wires and tubes plugged into her arms. They make recovery seem like a time far away.

Sakura shrugs, or tries to, anyway. "More or less the same. My throat is getting better. I'm not supposed to talk and just let it heal."

Despite this, she does most of the talking. She fires inquiry after inquiry at him about how her friends at school are doing: Does Rika eat enough during lunch? Did Chiharu pull up her English grade yet? Is Naoko spending too much time with that gang member? What about Eriol, Nakuru, Yamazaki, Tomoyo; the rest of them, are they okay too?

All his replies are the same: he doesn't know. He nearly adds that he doesn't care, but after seeing her genuine concern for their well-being when she herself is injured, after seeing how truly she cherishes them, even he feels somewhat touched. He shuts his mouth.

He does wonder, though, if they really treasure her as much as she treasures them, why none of her friends have yet to visit.

"Hey," she says, nudging into his thoughts. She turns her head to the window. "Want to know what I noticed recently?"

"What?"

She gestures out the window. "The sky. I've never noticed the sky before. It's pretty, isn't it?"

Syaoran looks too: it's all blue with streaks and puffs of white. Nothing noteworthy, but he still agrees with her. "That cloud looks like cotton candy," he remarks, pointing, just to have something to say.

Sakura squints at it. "Ah! You're right. It does." A serene smile appears on her lips as she watches the sky. He feels a tingle of something that might be satisfaction at seeing that smile and at knowing that he is partly the reason for it. Never before has he seen such a calm look on her face. Like this, it's the first time he doesn't find her annoying. At school she's always so noisy, with her eyes disappearing into her lively laughter, surrounded by even noisier friends who all do the same.

The tranquil mood breaks when she suddenly laughs. Her voice resounds in his ears.

"This talk of cotton candy makes me hungry." She lightly pats her belly.

As though the heavens heard her, a middle-aged nurse comes into the room at that moment, wheeling in a cart carrying a tray of food. Syaoran spots a little container of cotton candy ice cream on it and is just about convinced that Sakura is magic.

"Hello," the nurse says cheerfully. She has a motherly aura about her, one that makes him think of muffins and bedtime stories. At the same time, Syaoran detects something mechanical in her actions, her words, her smile. She pushes the cart further in, and he moves to make room for her. "How are you today, Kinomoto-san?"

"Better. Starving," the bedridden girl replies, just as cheerful. She sits up a little more, and despite her unwavering expression Syaoran can tell every bit of movement is a struggle.

"Can you feed yourself yet, dear?" the nurse asks. She assembles the utensils on the tray while she talks. Her hands work quickly, efficiently. Robotically.

Sakura shakes her head. "Not yet, I still need help. I'm really sorry for being such a bother..."

"Don't you spend a second thinking about it. It's what I'm here for. No problem at—"

"Wait," Syaoran cuts in. "I'll feed her."

Both heads swivel to stare at him in surprise: The fork slips from the nurse's fingers, rolls off the bed, and falls to the ground with a metallic clatter. Sakura gazes at him questioningly. But of everyone in the room, he has shocked himself the most.

"You'll do what?" the nurse asks slowly.

He tries to speak. Finds that every bit of moisture had evaporated from his mouth. After clearing his throat, he manages to give her a clear, firm answer. "I said, I'll feed her."

"Well... all right." The nurse steps back. He takes her place in front of the cart, picking up the fork and knife, all the while refusing to look at Sakura.

The nurse gathers her things. On her way out, she leans in close to his ear to whisper, "How lucky she is to have a friend like you."

He whips around. "We're not—"

But she is already too far away to hear, is left to believe something that isn't true, _can't _be true.

When he finally turns to Sakura, she's smiling like always, but her eyes ask the question neither is voicing: _why?_

He doesn't know; he just doesn't know.

The grey and brown mass on the plate before him looks like a discovery from another planet, not at all like something he wants touching his lips. Despite this, Sakura is watching her meal intently, small gurgling sounds coming from her stomach — and he scoops up a bit of the mashed something, spears a chunk of something else, and directs the fork to her mouth. Her tongue, small and pink, darts out to taste it, and he is immediately reminded of a kitten: defenseless, dependent, and very, very cute.

"There's some stuck on your lip," he mumbles, and turns away.

"Oh? Where?" She licks her lips.

_ Just like a kitten,_ Syaoran thinks again. He feels the overwhelming urge to take her home and nurture her back to recovery, to feed her milk and watch her curl up by his side, as if she really were a kitten.

"Li-kun? Is it gone?"

She looks at him, expectant. The little smear is still there, at the corner of her mouth, not quite in a spot her tongue can reach.

His next action is done almost as though in a trance. He slides one hand beneath her chin, tilts her head up slightly, revealing honey-colored eyes that have gone big with surprise at the contact. In one smooth movement, he picks up the cloth napkin with his other hand and wipes her mouth clean.

"There. It's gone." He doesn't look at her. He tries not to think about how dry and rough her skin had felt against his hand.

"Thanks!"

He can practically _feel _her beam at him.

After that, he senses her eyes on him for a long time. She's looking at him in a different way, watching him carefully build another bite of food for her. She holds words on her tongue, he can tell, candid comments and questions he's not comfortable answering.

"Li-kun—" she says, and the moment she opens her mouth he stuffs it with a bread roll.

"Just shut up and eat," he orders, not unkindly.

For the next few minutes, the only noises in the room are of the light background beeping in synch with her heart, the clinks of the spoon against the plate, and the soft sounds of Sakura chewing. With the two of them staying like that, it becomes less embarrassing to feed her. There's the possibility he might even like it, but he tells himself that can't possibly be true.

His movements unconsciously slow with each spoonful, and by the time the plate is two-thirds empty he has stopped completely. He can't get the nurse's parting words to cease their ringing in his head.

"We're not friends, are we?" he asks suddenly.

She gives him an inquisitive tilt of her head. "I don't know. Do you want to be?"

He's not sure.

He's still not sure when he heads home for the day, taking with him images of all sorts. Whenever he closes his eyes he sees her immobilized in that bed, that dull hospital room, looking like she had fallen into a blender and some sadistic bastard had pressed the _pulse _button again and again. He sees that table near her head, with nothing on it but her cell phone and dust. He sees himself seeming more at ease than he had ever been in the past year. He sees the two of them watching the clouds. Together. He sees the slight upward curve of his own mouth as he stays by her side.

Together.

He hates every one of those images, and that is precisely why he is able to keep himself from coming back to the hospital again.

One day passes. Those initial twenty-four hours were tough, but Syaoran allows schoolwork and soccer to consume him like they always do, until there's no space in his head left for thoughts of a certain hospitalized girl.

Before he knows it, a second day goes by. Then a third. Four. Five. A week. Two weeks. After the fifteenth day, Syaoran can't remember if he had ever gone to see her at all.

Sometimes it feels like a dream.

Perhaps it's best this way. Things can go back to the way they were before the accident. It had been a time when Syaoran only thought of school and soccer, when Sakura was nothing more than a background nuisance.

His mother is watching TV when he comes home from soccer practice that night. He sees the bored, glazed expression on her face and knows he shouldn't say anything. He does anyway.

"I scored three goals today."

Yelan doesn't waste energy moving her head, only slides her eyes over to where he stands by stairway. He's staring at her intently enough to catch the brief flash of pain in her face, the pain that he knows must stab at her whenever she looks at him, taking in his appearance, so similar to his father's, and is again reminded of the man who had packed his bags and left them in the middle of the night, nearly two years ago.

But the slip of emotion doesn't last. It takes Syaoran only one blink, and her face has been wiped free of all feelings, reverted back to the nothing he's gotten to know so well. When she returns her gaze to the flickering television screen, Syaoran wordlessly retreats from the room. Not today. He can't get through to her today.

He takes a long shower after that, running the water much warmer than usual to soothe his aching muscles. He sticks his head directly under the shower spray, lets the hot stream splash against his face continuously. It feels good, cleansing, and he thinks he can stay like this forever if he could.

But he does emerge eventually, with the steam from his shower rushing out to fuse with the shock of cooler bathroom air. He feels much better now, more relaxed and less sore. He should take hot showers more often; they work wonders.

When he glances at the mirror he starts thinking that maybe hotter showers aren't such a brilliant idea. He raises a hand to his cheek to discover that the hot water had dried out his face, leaving it rough as sandpaper. The feel of dry skin beneath his fingers reminds him of something, but be can't recall what it is exactly.

He looks into the mirror again. He's still trying to recall the feeling of déjà vu when his reflection morphs: damp brown hair lightens to auburn, lengthens to his neck; the tanned skin pales; amber eyes change to those of a color like sparkling emeralds, eyes that are wide and naïve, that stare and stare yet never judge.

He blinks — and Syaoran is Syaoran again.

But it doesn't matter. He remembers.

Somehow, he is sure that he will be home late tomorrow, and it won't be because of soccer.

* * *

He turns heads with each step further into the cosmetics store his mother used to frequent. The workers are mainly women, each wondering what this teenage boy is doing in a place like this, a young man who seems lost and sure of himself at the same time.

Syaoran approaches a worker occupied with restocking the shelves, gets her attention with a tap on the shoulder.

"Excuse me," he says, once she's facing him. "What would you recommend for dry skin?"

The woman gives his face a quick look-over, then clicks her tongue at him. "You don't need it, son. Won't do a thing to your skin."

"It's not for me. It's for... an acquaintance."

"Girlfriend?" she says, raising her eyebrows knowingly.

"No, she's..." Syaoran struggles for the right word and can't find one. He decides to drop the subject, let the woman believe what she wants, because this is only taking up time and he really, _really _wants to get out of there. The longer he stays, the more he thinks about her.

* * *

**A/N**: Review if you have any questions or comments. I can't _make_ you do anything. :)

Edits, please?

What an awful ending. D:

Until next time,

Entrancia


	3. Part Three

**A/N**: Holy crap, did I really just show up for five seconds in the summer, disappear for ten months while school devoured my very being, then come back at the end of my school year? I guess so. My hard work has paid off, though, because in one week I will be a high school graduate and on my way to college! I have no idea how busy I'll be as a college student, seeing how this particular college has a reputation for being scarily tough, but what matters is that I have this time now to write. So... here I go.

**Title:** Let Me Hear Your Voice  
**Rating:** T  
**Genre:** Romance, angst (I think?)  
**Pairing(s):** Sakura/Syaoran  
**Warnings:** OOC, I think? I've pretty much ignored CCS for two years so my memory's kinda hazy.  
**Summary:** AU. Each time Syaoran enters her hospital room, he figures it's the guilt that keeps bringing him back. There's nothing else it can be... right?  
**Disclaimer:** Cardcaptor Sakura will be mine when Blow Pop minis rain down from the sky. Yum.**  
**

* * *

**_let me hear your voice_**  
_entrancia  
pt. iii_

* * *

He's here again. The hospital.

His head tilts down a bit, his gaze catching the _Kirakira Cosmetics_ logo printed in fluorescent bubble letters on the outside of the bag he's holding. It's too bright, too many colors gnawing at the eyes, inappropriately cheerful for a place that has seen as much accumulated death as a battlefield. Still, he adjusts his grip and moves forward.

Third floor, Syaoran recalls. Sixth door down the hall, left side, room D3–618. Where Sakura is.

Like last time, the door isn't closed when he gets there; it's open, gaping wide as though someone had flung it that way. He walks right in, not thinking much of it, and prepares himself to hear her customary greeting by closing his eyes.

He opens them when that greeting never comes. And he stops dead.

His fingers become a vise around the handles of the bag, the cold fingers of his free hand curling into a fist, white-knuckled, unstable; it feels as though there is a third hand inside him that's gripping just as tightly around his heart, or his lungs, or his brain too, or maybe all three at once, because he suddenly finds himself struggling to breathe and to think. His pulse, where did his pulse go?

The only occupant of the room is gone.

Syaoran's eyes descend upon the rumpled sheets half-falling off the bed, as though the person in it had to leave in a hurry, or had been rushed out in a hurry.

A passing nurse nearly spills the coffee in her hands when Syaoran grabs her shoulder and yanks her back to face him. All formalities and manners are forgotten when he speaks.

"What happened to the girl in this room?" he demands, and would sound much more intimidating had his lungs been functioning normally.

The nurse gives him a blank stare; it doesn't take him long to realize that he has unconsciously thickened his accent so much that she doesn't understand him, and it's only a second wasted when he repeats his question, slower this time but as equally impatient as the first. Something else slips into his tone that feels suspiciously like desperation, the need to know that she's been discharged or something similar to that —_ God, just let her be okay._

The perplexed nurse never gets the chance to reply, because then—

"Is that you, Li-kun?"

Syaoran's head snaps up and turns to the source of the person who spoke just now. That voice, no one else can possibly have a voice like that, one that immediately brings to mind the clearest, deepest, bluest sky—

When he looks down, Sakura looks back up at him. A wheelchair supports her underneath, and behind her, a nurse.

"I was just taking a walk. Um, stroll. Whatever this is," Sakura says. She laughs when all Syaoran does is stare. "It's nice seeing you again."

He doesn't respond. He isn't sure if he can, or maybe he's afraid he'll say something he'll want to take back later, things he doesn't mean or maybe means too much. He keeps his distance too, with some effort. Something must be wrong with him, because there is this nearly uncontrollable urge that twitches under his skin to pull her into his arms and just _hold_ her, and perhaps even sigh with relief that she's here and nowhere else, not six feet under because of him. In reality he only trails after the nurse and patient into the room. He doesn't trust himself to speak until the nurse leaves, Sakura all settled in that lone bed.

She looks the same. No, she looks better. Recovering. Even more glowing than before. Curtly, he tells her so, minus the glowing part; it's probably best for both of them that he keep that to himself.

Sakura beams. "It's because I begged my doctors to let me go out in my wheelchair. They said I'm not ready to go very far, let alone outside the building, but it's okay for me to wander these halls. The change of scenery really helps."

"What about your leg?" Syaoran asks, looking at the foot of her bed, where her toes peep out from under the blanket.

"The doctors want me to do some kind of therapy when I get better. If I try it, I just might be able to use both legs again," she says. Smiling, she wiggles the toes of one foot; the ones on the other don't move at all. Then it dawns on Syaoran that she _can't_ move them, perhaps not ever again, and it hurts him that he knows how she got that way.

_I let that happen. She's trapped here because of me._

When Sakura sees his pained expression, her smile softens. "Don't worry. I'm sure it'll heal. Just you wait and see."

Any relief he had felt when he saw her fizzles away. Every time she speaks, her kind voice pounds into him worse than a bully's fists. The Kinomoto Sakura at school doesn't know how to talk in such a soothing way. That Sakura always makes herself heard, intentional or not. That girl seldom smiles because she's too busy laughing. That is the Sakura he is used to, and no matter how often she got on his nerves, seeing her reduced to someone so calm, so weak and utterly vulnerable... it's nearly too much for him to bear. Her delusional optimism does nothing to help him feel better.

Luckily, a doctor intervenes at that instant, announces her presence with a knock at the door. She tells Sakura it's time for another check-up, and then addresses Syaoran, asking him to "Please wait outside for a while" and saving the boy from more potentially awkward silences, because, after all this time, he still has no words for her.

Syaoran shuts the door as he steps out, and he is so grateful to be away from Sakura — and the conflicting emotions that assault him whenever he sees her—that he momentarily forgets to watch where he's walking. He doesn't notice the nurse until they collide, clipboard and papers flying every which way.

"Excuse me, young man!" She glances up from gathering her things and their eyes lock. The woman blinks at Syaoran. Then she breathes a surprised "Oh!" when she realizes who he is.

"You. You were that boy. You went to see one of my patients before. Kinomoto Sakura-san, was it?" she asks.

After a moment of silence and staring from Syaoran, he remembers her too: she was the one who brought Syaoran her lunch that second day he visited.

She asks, "Are you here to see her again?"

He nods, and she smiles. There is nothing mechanical about that smile, he notes, not like when he first met her. It's real.

"Kinomoto-san has been asking me about you," she informs him.

"She has?" He can't stop the surprise from showing in his face, remembering how Sakura had reacted to his presence as though reacting to a particularly ordinary weather forecast. Her bedridden figure had been on his mind all day, but it never occurred to Syaoran that she had been thinking of him.

"Oh, yes. I recently switched shifts, so I don't see her too often. But whenever I do, she always asks me if I had seen you around, referring to you as 'that really nice boy.'" She pauses and gives a little chuckle. "Then she started worrying that you visited while she slept. Caused the doctors quite a bit of trouble for a while when she stopped sleeping."

He starts to say... what, exactly? That the feelings aren't reciprocal? That he had opted for the stairs over the too-fast elevator, having to _force_ his feet up the forty-eight steps to her room because he didn't want to face what could have been prevented? It doesn't matter. The nurse speaks before he can.

"It's a good thing she has your visits to look forward to." She looks to the door of Sakura's room sadly. "Poor girl hasn't had a single visitor except for her brother, but even he can't stop by often because of university."

Syaoran opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again, feels like a fish doing so, but "We're not friends" is all he can say, stubbornly, as though trying to convince himself more than the nurse.

She puts on a little smile at the corner of her lips, lets her head tilt to the side in that all-too-knowing_ oh really now?_ manner.

The door swings open then, interrupts them. She slips in a sentence before the doctor steps out. "Are you sure that's what you want?" she asks slyly, and without waiting for him to utter a sound she leaves along with the doctor, leaves Syaoran to mull over what she has said.

Instead, he shoves it out of his mind and reenters the room.

Through the half-second delay of Sakura's movements he can easily tell that the doctor had sedated her with a strong dosage of medicine in the few minutes he spent outside: she lifts her head like usual when he approaches, but it is with slight difficulty, as though her brain had been removed and replaced with stone. Still, the smile she gives him is bright as ever, her delight to see him nothing short of genuine.

He deserves no such thing. This time, he finds the words to tell her.

"Why are you so happy I'm here?"

When he receives nothing as an answer from a girl who can eat up an hour explaining why the current time is 5:26 PM, something moves him to keep going.

"Our conversations at school are completely one-sided. I ignore you when you try to talk to me. I don't even look at you when you greet me in the mornings. You're probably the only person who doesn't publicly make fun of my accent — who doesn't make fun of me for being me — and yet I don't appreciate it at all. During that one time when we were paired for a project, I wouldn't let you do any work because I wanted it to be over fast, so that we could get out of each other's lives. You're nice to everyone but I'm not nice to you. Why would you be happy to see such a person?"

She doesn't even blink at his breathless rant, and it frustrates him enough to add one more thing.

"_I don't like you."_

She remains silent, still. Her expression is unreadable, which Syaoran thinks is the strangest part of the day: stranger than he going to see her, she wanting to see him, or the fact that the two most unlikely people are here in the same room, tied together by an untimely sneeze. It might even be the medicine working, relaxing her muscles, dulling her vision and rubbing at the edges until Syaoran is just a fuzzy blob of color. Whatever the reason, it is a side of Sakura contrary to her happy-go-lucky demeanor. Syaoran wonders how many other people get to see this side of her, when she _doesn't_ have her emotions displayed behind a glass case. Is he the first? Why him?

What makes him special?

A thousand years have passed when the girl finally opens her mouth.

"But you don't _hate _me_,"_ she says, the smile back in its place. Syaoran would normally find it infuriatingly eternal; now it's just a prickle of frustration at her for her unjustified kindness.

He just asks, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Because..." She struggles to speak without slurring. Only now is Sakura visibly, audibly fighting the lethargy caused by the drug in her veins, but Syaoran realizes that she has been fighting this entire time to keep up with their conversation — to keep him here. "Because you have the potential to like me. And I," she says, "definitely like you."

In the diminishing daylight he swears her cheeks have colored a sunset pink, warm and pretty. Pretty. She's pretty, always has been, too pretty to pay attention to the freaky foreigner who never talks. It's not just the outside kind of pretty, either, although she is definitely that. Yet... she likes him. He, who is frozen, blackened, broken inside. When was the last time that happened? Before his father left? Before Syaoran forgot how to be a friend?

"I have to go. Soccer," he says abruptly, even though he had already attended practice. He pivots so that his back is to her and his own flushed cheeks are shielded by the shadows of twilight.

"Li-kun. Wait."

He stops at the doorway but doesn't turn around. He waits. Listens.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

She speaks quietly, her voice unsure, notches below her usual volume. There's something new in it too, fleeting and suppressed but definitely there. The faint timbre of hope.

That's all it takes.

"Maybe," he says.

* * *

**A/N**: It IS a short chapter that didn't really go anywhere, but it means I'm back! Any impromptu edits, comments, complaints, and suggestions are entirely welcome (but not required!). :D Someone mentioned in a review about some spelling errors, but I pride myself on my awesome spelling skills and I didn't see anything wrong. Unless, of course, you mean my American way of spelling "realize" instead of "realise," which doesn't count. Also, if you can't tell, I'm having a load of trouble with Syaoran's emotions. Ugh, I'm no good with ~feelings~.

I didn't mean for this chapter to have so much dialogue. This isn't supposed to be that kind of fic. D:

Part four will come... some time after I graduate. Wish me luck!

Until next time,

Entrancia


	4. Part Four

**A/N**: A huge thank you to **Xinliang** for beta reading and for being patient with me through my lack of confidence! This chapter had been bothering me really badly with how rushed it seems, but she convinced me I'm just being overly critical of myself. So here it is, the last chapter!

I'm pretty sure they don't have valedictorian and salutatorian in Japan, but for the sake of this fic let's pretend there is. :)

**Title:** Let Me Hear Your Voice  
**Rating:** T  
**Genre:** Romance, angst  
**Pairing(s):** Sakura/Syaoran  
**Warnings:** OOC, I think? I've pretty much ignored CCS for two years so my memory's kinda hazy.  
**Summary:** AU. Each time Syaoran enters her hospital room, he figures it's the guilt that keeps bringing him back. There's nothing else it can possibly be... right?  
**Disclaimer:** Cardcaptor Sakura will never be mine, even in my dreams.**  
**

* * *

**_let me hear your voice_**  
_entrancia_  
_pt. iv_

* * *

Sakura is half hanging out the window the next time Syaoran visits, the following day.

"Oi!" he yells, dropping the soccer ball he brought along with him. She jerks at the harsh sound of his voice, startled, and he sprints to the window to pull her to safety, makes certain to keep his hold on her gentle but firm.

"What are you doing out there?" He's almost shouting in her face. He's shaking too, mainly from anger at her stupidity — nearly all of her ribs are broken, as well as every other bone in her body — but weaved into that is worry for her health, relief that she's secure in his arms.

Sakura turns her face up, her eyes to his, emerald to amber, the nearest in proximity they have ever been. Up close, he sees that his perception had been wrong in the dim light of the previous day. Her skin, still dry, reminds him that the lotion he'd purchased for her is long gone, dropped somewhere and forgotten. Furthermore, her face is gaunter, more ashen than he remembers. That, he is sure, is not the sign of a recovering patient.

"I was trying to find cotton candy in the clouds," she hums, unperturbed, and something funny happens beneath his chest, directly under the area where Sakura's hands rest, an infant's curled fists poking out of hospital gown sleeves.

"Next time," he says, averting his eyes from that intense gaze, "wait for me. It'll be trouble for your doctors if you fall out the window." He pretends to not see her mouth break into a wide grin at his implied promise.

"You ran over here so fast," she comments after he helps her back in her bed.

Syaoran shrugs to mask his embarrassment. "Soccer legs."

"I've seen you play before. You're really good."

"Aren't you a cheerleader?" He resists the urge to speak in past tense. Resists sneaking another peek at her defunct leg. "You're required to come to my games."

"Well, yes," she admits. "But sometimes I come to your practices too. If you'd ever seen some weirdo watching you from behind the fence, that's probably me."

He does remember seeing a person standing under one of the trees, clinging on to the cold wire fence. That must have been her. She wasn't exactly sneaky about it, cheering enthusiastically and applauding. He always ignored her cheers, was annoyed by them, even, when they got too loud. But now that he really thinks about it, he realizes that, yes, the mysterious fan always cheered, made a ton of noise, but it was never for the other players. It was just for him.

"—number?" Sakura's voice floats into the middle of his memory, gently grabs his ear, and tugs him back to the present.

"Er, what?"

She extends her cell phone to him. She repeats, "Can I have your number? I want to know when your games are."

He asks, "Why?" but he's already reaching out for it, not quite thinking straight.

"I..." Her smiling face slips for a second, dropping her gaze. He follows her eyes and ends up at her feet. She seems to finally understand the extent of her injuries after he sees her try to — and can't — make her foot move. But her recovery is speedy, because she's speaking optimistic nonsense again: "Since I can't cheer for you with the rest of my team, I want to be able to cheer for you here, whenever you're playing."

Nonsense or not, he likes it better than reflecting on the negative, so he nods his head in appreciation. "I'll tell the other players that," he says, though he knows he'll do no such thing.

Later, he asks the nurse who wheels in dinner — more unidentifiable substances on plates with utensils on the side — if he could feed her, again. The nurse, a man this time, looks to Sakura, deems her healthy enough to go without a nurse's aid, and gives Syaoran the okay nod.

"Don't forget to take these after," he informs Sakura, holding out a bottle of painkillers.

"I'll remind her," Syaoran assures him.

Hardly any clouds are left in the tangerine sky by the time she finishes dinner and takes her medicine, but she still wants to go to the window. Syaoran refuses for the sake of her safety, and instead moves out of the way so they can watch the clouds together.

Sakura points out a camera, a bouquet of daisies, a yogurt container, and melted candle wax. She goes silent after she asks Syaoran what he sees in one particularly large cloud mass and he answers with "a dysfunctional family."

"You know." The way she says that, Syaoran gets the feeling that if her arm weren't broken she would have propped herself up on her elbows and stared at him like he's the only person in the world, although she's already doing that second part.

"You can always come here if you ever feel like talking about anything. And"— she taps her cell phone —"there's always this."

* * *

Syaoran doesn't like phones much. There is something awkward about talking to a disembodied voice coming out of a hunk of plastic. He would rather talk to a person face-to-face, or better, not talk at all. He places his phone on his computer desk and eyes it warily, doesn't know if he should test out the newest addition to his contacts list. Then it's in his hand and he punches in the digits and his thumb hovers over the _call_ button, glowing green. He's received texts and calls before, of course, but all from teammates informing him about the latest games and practices. They don't come often.

Naturally he jumps, almost falling out of his chair, when seemingly out of nowhere the device vibrates in his hand.

He can't explain the warmth in his belly when he reads the short but loudly capslocked message spammed on either side with emoticons, oozing excitement like only Kinomoto Sakura can.

He still prefers hearing her voice.

* * *

It becomes as routine as a daily shower for Syaoran to visit, dropping by right after school or, on most days, soccer practice, and he stays until Sakura's eyes droop with fatigue and his watch ticks impatiently for him to go. Even if time is tight, he makes sure he goes to see her: checking up on her condition, finishing up homework while she naps, feeding her — even cloud-watching, because "it's more fun when I'm not doing it alone."

This time is a release for him. With Sakura talking, there's no room left to think about the mother who no longer cares, the father who stopped caring long ago, the boy who won't open up in fear that life is a cycle and the beginning will reoccur.

He looks forward to this time with her, seeing her gain strength bit by bit, every day.

He's sitting on the edge of Sakura's bed when that realization socks him in the stomach. The guilt isn't there. It existed once, but not now, not anymore. He's here to see her and only her; there's no guilt driving his every compulsive action. But something else is. It is much more powerful, swelling within him and radiating warmer than the coziest of campfires.

When that thought hits him, the words he was about to say flees from his lips. Sakura cocks her head. Waits with an endless patience.

Then he finds his eyes being pulled magnetically to the table beside her bed, still bare after all this time. Nothing more than a resting place for her cell phone. A scene from school flashes back at him then: a wide circle of her friends, their exuberant laughter, goofing off and having fun and not once sparing a thought of concern for their mangled friend, the half-hearted inquiries of _Sakura who? _that he's almost positive are floating around. He pushes down the urge to tell her about it, ask her why they haven't visited, what kind of friends are they?

His mouth betrays him.

"Your friends. Why haven't they come to see you?" comes out, in place of all the pleasant things he had been planning in his head. _Friends _sounded more sarcastic than he wanted it to.

Sakura's face changes then, the smile falling like a tsunami wave upon a peaceful beachside cottage. Syaoran braces himself for tears, but she doesn't seem saddened by his words like he expects her to be. Instead, she looks... guilty?

"Um, actually..." Her auburn fringe falls into her eyes as she lowers her head. He strains to hear what she says next: "They don't know I'm here," she mumbles.

And he stares at her, unable to believe a bit of that. How can it be possible for her friends to not know where she's been _for_ _the past month?_

As if on cue, an odd buzzing noise drags their attention to the bedside table, to where Sakura's phone sits. The phone vibrates twice more — two more text messages received — inching closer and closer to the edge of the table before finally tipping over. It hits the ground noisily but remains intact.

Syaoran doesn't mean to read the text when he goes to pick up the bejeweled device for her. His eyes accidentally peek at the screen, where it displays a short, emoticon-flooded message from someone named Tomoyo: _"Hope you're having fun! We all miss you!"_

His eyes narrow. By now it's obvious that Sakura is hiding something from him, as he is quite sure that the hospital is the least fun place for a teenage girl to spend her time.

"What does she mean by this?" he demands, holding the phone in front of her face.

She takes it from him without saying a word. She continues to stare at the message while she talks, avoiding him, the first time she's done so. "I'm not a very good person, Syaoran," she says at last.

Of all the things she could have said, this ranks fairly high on the unexpected scale. He just says dumbly, "What?"

"I lie. I lie all the time. I've been lying to my friends about where I am, about what happened. I lie when people ask me how I feel. I always have to be happy. No tears, no pain. No hospital, definitely not. Everyone thinks I'm on vacation in Europe, which is believable because my dad is holding a seminar over there. My dad himself doesn't know I'm in the hospital. I made Touya promise not to tell." Touya, he assumes, is her older brother.

"Why?" The word comes out abrasive, Sakura flinching, and Syaoran tries again, more softly, even though he's horrified at how destructive her selflessness is. "Why would you do such a thing?"

There is no moisture in her eyes, but he hears the waver in her voice and the control it takes to stay strong, and it makes him wonder how much of her emotions she is — has been — holding back from him. "I don't want anyone to ever have to worry about me. If my friends know I'm here, they would want to visit. They'll bring gifts and make a fuss over my health. I know them; they'll insist on not cheerleading anymore because I'm not there." A pause, and then, "It's better this way."

Syaoran isn't sure how to respond to that. So he says what he's been wondering since that first day he came.

"Aren't you lonely here?"

Sakura blinks, and when she looks at him the surprise in her face is more blatant than the sun in a clear sky. "No. I'm not lonely." She smiles up at him. "You come see me every day, don't you?"

Try as he might, Syaoran can't ignore the butterflies that flutter beneath his ribs.

* * *

One day it all pours out. He starts with "My father is gone" and goes on to describe everything. His move to Japan. His father's departure. His mother's breakdown.

His own breakdown.

He makes an attempt to tell her about how he feels when she's around, but the words fail him again and he leaves it for another time.

She had closed her eyes to listen, keeping them closed for half an hour. "I'm so sorry," when he's done, and she means every syllable.

He declines the hug she then offers, but his arms, shoulders, back, and neck all tingle, as though she hugged him anyway.

* * *

"I need to tell you something."

He had waited until after she was done eating to talk. Something about his tone must signal to her that it's serious, whatever he has to say, because she immediately shuts her mouth and waits for him to assemble his thoughts.

She surprises him by speaking when he can't find the right words. "If it's about the day of the accident, then I already know," she says, voice soft.

Syaoran is shocked speechless for a second. "You saw me there?"

"No."

He feels a bump against his knee, and looks down to see Sakura using much of her strength to lift her free arm, enclose her tiny hand around his fingertips. He doesn't move away.

She murmurs, "I heard you calling my name."

A while later she falls asleep just like that, her head falling to the side, mouth stilled in a smile, grip on his fingers loosening. Too late, he suddenly remembers that he didn't remind her to take her medicine. He scribbles a note to a nurse about it, leaves it on the table in plain sight.

Syaoran has to reluctantly pull away from her because it's that time again, time to return to his most likely comatose and unresponsive mother, passed out on the couch. This time, though, there's the tiniest spring in his step as he curls his hand, tucks it in his pocket, and takes Sakura's lingering warmth home with him. If only for a moment, home won't be so cold.

* * *

Because of mid-semester exams, he stays home for a week. Sakura insisted he do so, through consecutive texts of _"Study hard!"_ and _"You better stay in the running for valedictorian!" _with her customary emoticons sprinkled throughout, which came an hour or so after he left the hospital. It seems she didn't stay asleep after all.

He puts his all into studying to fulfill her wishes, but each late night and can of Red Bull leave him exhausted, so he would not have been able to visit anyway.

He doesn't visit for a second week. With soccer season in full swing, his teammates expect him to show up at every practice, wide awake, focused. Sakura stays quiet, though, even after he brings himself to type out a two-word message to her. _We won._

He doesn't think much of it.

At the end of that second week, he is at home, his mother in her room, both at peace. After so long he finally has time to see Sakura again. He tells himself that he's only going because she's waiting for him, not the other way around, although his good mood says otherwise. When he goes to retrieve his phone, his eyes catch the "one new message" note across the screen.

He slides it open, somewhat eagerly, anticipates a congratulatory message for surviving mid-semester exams week or for playing another great game against a rival school. He bites back the smile when he finds a voicemail from her instead of a text, even better. His fingers fumble with the buttons, then presses the receiver to his ear... and he freezes upon hearing her say his name.

"_Li-kun. Hi, Li-kun. I was hoping you wouldn't pick up. It makes this easier for me. It hurts to cry."_

If her odd words had not tipped him off that something was terribly amiss, her tone does. She speaks in a way he'd never heard her speak before, positive yet solemn, both at once. She's also breathless, like she had been sprinting before she called him, her throat producing more air than voice.

"_Thank you. For everything. Thank you for being here for me when no one else was. Thank you for being my friend even though you didn't want to be. From the moment you transferred to our school I've wanted to be your friend. I know it was selfish of me, but thank you for granting my wish. Thank you for teaching me that... sometimes it's okay to be selfish. But please, please remember one thing: it's not your fault. It's mine, all mine. I should have been more careful. I should have—"_

Here she is cut off by a series of coughs, far too violent for her weakened frame to handle. Syaoran can almost hear her ribs cracking with each convulsion. Heavy breathing accompanies the silence after the coughing fit, as though she's trying to catch her breath, used up her last morsel of energy. Just when he figures she's not going to say anything more, she does.

"_I'm just glad I got to know you."_

The message concludes with a _click,_ resolute and final. The end.

A female voice drones, "_To erase this message, press eight_. _To save it, press ni—"_

Syaoran hits the number nine in his phone before the woman finishes, and he couldn't be out of the house faster if it was on fire. He leaves the front door swinging on its hinges, open to intruders, but his mother can tend to it if she cares at all. It's just Sakura on his mind right now, Sakura hurt at the hospital, Sakura, Sakura, too late to save Sakura...

No! He can't think about that. She's fine, he tells himself. He brushes the rivulets of rain out of his eyes, starts to curse the heavens for the ill-timed weather, but then he understands that the rain is coming _from_ his eyes, and that there is not a spot of cloudy imperfection in the sky right now.

He runs. He runs with the tears distorting his path — he doesn't need to see; he's already memorized the way to the hospital — dashes through the streets and winds through traffic, past drivers hollering obscenities at this young delinquent who they assume is playing in the road for the fun of it. He ignores the world rushing by him; they don't know — can't know — that it might be a matter of life and death, but dear _God, _he prays it won't involve the latter. He bangs his knee into the side of a parked car, stumbles, skids on gravel, clutches at a stabbing side cramp — all hurdles he effortlessly leaps over. He just runs, puts years of soccer training to good use, pushing his abilities to their breaking point, even, until his calves throb and threaten to drag him underneath the concrete. He keeps going, will crawl up the stairs if he needs to. He has to see her. If he sees her she might be okay, please, please be okay—

He only stops, abruptly, halfway up the third staircase of the hospital, when he hears someone scream her name. It's a man's scream, and somehow, despite never meeting the man, Syaoran knows it is Sakura's older brother. No one else can project two months' worth of anguish and a lifetime of love like that into a scream.

Despite the implications of the scream or the grim — hopeless — chances, Syaoran's legs move on their own accord to the door of D3–618. "Kinomoto, Kinomoto!" he shouts, again and again, pounding and clawing at the locked door. He closes his eyes. "Sakura," he croaks.

Then: a doctor is there, holds the door open at arms length, blocking Sakura with his body but unable to block the sounds of the open sobbing, bawling of a grown man, coming from Sakura's bedside. The doctor spots Syaoran, all his tears and trembling beyond his control, and the man shakes his head slowly. Apologetically.

"I'm sorry," he says. He intends it toward not letting Syaoran through, but the boy is well aware of the second meaning.

He's too late.

* * *

He hears the full story from one of Sakura's newer nurses. Or rather, he forces the man to tell him, threatening to not leave until he knows what happened.

According to the nurse, Sakura's problems began exactly two weeks before her death. Syaoran feels his heart sink past his stomach and crash into the ground. That was right after he went home in preparation for exams, the last time he had seen her.

She had spotted the note Syaoran left for the nurse asking him or her to give Sakura her medicine. Reminded of it, she must have tried to retrieve the medicine herself, which was placed on a table a good ten feet away from her bed.

She tripped.

Still brittle from her previous fractures, her bones snapped again easily. Surgeons operated for six hours straight to repair a punctured and collapsed lung, a grazed heart, and several other injuries. Sakura was reported to be in stable condition in her last hours, though, able to talk and move slowly.

The doctors tell him she died suddenly. Complications of the heart, they explain. No one saw it coming, except for perhaps Sakura herself, because heart problems often involve some suffering beforehand, something Syaoran doesn't want to think about. But if that were the case, her doctors wonder, why would she keep quiet about it? They could have done something to help. It must have been as much of a surprise to her as it was to them.

When they found her she was clutching tightly onto her phone, as if it were a lifeline connecting her to the world. Sakura's brother—Touya—lets him keep it. In some other lifetime they might have been rivals, the overprotective brother bumping heads with the unfitting suitor who had stolen his sister's heart, but today they sit together by the gravestone that juts out of the fresh dirt, and they both miss her.

* * *

_It's not your fault._

He replays her last message to himself sometimes, when he yearns to hear her again, optimistic even in her last breath.

He plays it when he is sure he's alone, when there is no one around to see those few tears he just can't contain within him any longer.

He plays it as the only reassurance that he is not the one at fault, when in reality he knows that's a lie; it will forever be his fault that the world can never again hear that girl's sweet voice.

Mostly, though, Syaoran doesn't play it at all. He keeps it archived deep in his phone, in a place where accessibility is difficult so he can't accidentally come across it. And he sleeps, more and more often, because in sleep he can let everyone and everything go, pretend that she hadn't worked her way into his life, that he'd never met the wonder that had been Kinomoto Sakura. Pretend that the tearing ache inside him isn't really there.

For those few hours each night, he pretends that everything is okay.

* * *

**A/N**: Aaaaand that's a wrap! I actually finished something that's longer than a chapter for once, yay.

There's still a part of me that thinks parts of the fic is rushed, and if anyone agrees please don't hesitate to say so in review. If enough people think so then I might slowly edit in some extra scenes. **But the ending remains the same no matter what.** :) I'm sorry but it has to be this way. I really liked writing this, despite how hard it was.

Thank you all for reading! (Yes, even if you hated how it ended.)

Until next time,

Entrancia


End file.
